I may not Have a House of Gold, but I'll still take Care of You
by MomotsukiNezumi
Summary: That tiny bit of Obscurial that crawled over the ruined subway bricks may not have had much hope for survival, but Newt's always been an optimist. In life, the oldest Barebone adoptee had experienced a nasty, short existence, and the only bright spot turned out to be a big fat lie, so perhaps finding a place to die in peace would be better, right? Not on Newt's watch, it isn't.


**A/N: Yes, I know I procrastinate and leave lengthy absences between updates on any of my stories. Yes, I know writing this when I need to update and edit a bunch of stories left hanging on awkward cliffhangers for so long that any readers have probably let go and picked something of much better style, length, and overall quality to read. I am an awful, horrible, no good, very bad procrastinator in many things. Writing is one of them.**

 **This was done to fix my horrible sad panda feelings after watching the film for the third time in as many weeks (and then twice more, since I wanted to see all the awesome magical creatures onscreen again), and desperately needing an outlet of some kind to let me write poor Credence Barebone a happier ending (and maybe punch some of those freaking M.A.C.U.S.A. people and Grindelwald, since apparently Wizarding governments are screwed up and incompetant even here over the pond -_-'). There were enough tears to fill buckets, people. I hadn't gotten that many "my life sucks and i need a million hugs and a puppy cuddle pile and for someone with the want and resources to actually give a fig about what happens to me" vibes since rereading Mr. Rick Riordan's** ** _Percy Jackson and the Olympians_** **series and thinking Hades' favoritism and neglect issues regarding his own children were utterly horrid and needed headcanon fix-its.**

 **WARNING #1: _FILM SPOILERS_** ** _AHEAD._** **I REPEAT, FILM SPOILERS AHEAD. PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T LIKE 'EM.**

 **WARNING #2: Flashbacks and references to film!verse psychological and emotional home abuse. Canon-typical violence. British curse words/exclamations of both the magical and non-magical sort. Newt being...well, Newt. Semi-graphic descriptions of injuries, blood, physical and magical ailments, and varied destruction of public property. Film!verse M.A.C.U.S.A's unfortunate general stupidity, lack of flexibility, and "hex first, ask questions later" stance. General AU trampling of canon!verse problems because I really, really needed my complete cheesy happy ending, dangit.**

 **NOTE #1: I have absolutely no experience of writing from the perspective of any of these characters, so please try not to be too disappointed if I'm not up to par. Considering my last writing foray into any part of the Potter!verse was several years back, I'm likely very rusty as it is.**

 **NOTE #2: The first section of this is a partial flashback to the climax scene fight and the apparent death of Credence, then immediately moves into a post-film _AU_ wherein Newt has bid goodbye to Tina and co., but once Tina was out of sight and heading back home, Newt reconsidered and got off the boat to look for Credence on the chance that he was still powerful enough to have lived through the attack from the Aurors in the subway earlier. **

**NOTE #3: Due to a combination of fluctuating free time/motivation to write/general life issues, this is going to be (for now) a long oneshot only, and is written entirely based on the idea that Credence survived the explosive crapstorm that was his brutal time in film!verse, and that Newt decides to find him and keep the promise he and Tina each made to help him. If at some point I have both the time and the desire to write a multichapter story of this, it will be done, but it is currently not planned for.**

 **DISCLAIMER: As is obvious to the entire blinkin' universe, I don't own anything (or anything associated with) the lovely J.K. Rowling's** ** _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them._** **This is written entirely for both potentially bringing enjoyment to others, and for fixing my own shredded emotions. Please don't sue or flag, I'm so monumentally out of shinies or money that the Nifflers would cry.**

* * *

Newt Scamander, wizard, magizoologist, and keeper of an rather exasperating escape-artist Niffler, was a man of many talents, chief among them the care and protection of the magical creatures under his charge. He'd gained many useful things from this particular ability, such as how Billywig stings could produce a short period of levitation and a giddy feeling, or how Chizpurfles tended to like infesting the soft fur of Crups and Demiguises, or that Doxie venom, while nasty and discomfiting enough to warrant a trip to St. Mungo's if left to fester, could potentially be useful in a diluted state for inks or candy flavourings. Over the course of his time doing fieldwork and writing his manuscript, he'd learned other things, useful not only in his particular line of work, but in bonding with his beloved creatures, such as how ookami enjoyed eating crunchy things (and could be thusly coaxed into shrinking to travel size when convenient if one had a teapot and an insect handy), or that bowtruckles would happily keep one's potted plants and trees clear of aphids and woodlice, so long as you didn't handle them roughly, or how Jarveys, despite often having rude or fragmented human speech, were terribly useful for keeping gardens clear of gnomes or infestations of rodents that might otherwise eat your berries or vegetables.

Now, however, Newt Scamander was a man of a different sort: a man who had failed to keep his promise. The last vestiges of Credence Barebone's Obscurial form had scattered in the wake of the spells fired from the M.A.C.U.S.A Aurors, violently blasted apart by a volley of explosive light and energy that only the very brave, the very fearful, or perhaps the very stupid were known to pull off. Seraphina Picquery's orders to fire at will had been done to the letter, and Newt, Tina, and the false Graves could only watch, briefly united in collective horror and disbelief at the slaughter performed before their eyes in the ruined subway.

He didn't agree with Grindelwald's ideas, and in truth found him quite the unpleasant sort even if one put aside his role in the wizarding world's genocide and persecution problems, but one thing he'd said had indeed been right: _"I ask all of you, who does this law protect? Us...or them?"_

The law certainly hadn't protected Credence from beatings or lies, or Tina for defending him from his adoptive mother's cruelty. It hadn't protected Queenie from being trapped doing her job while her sister was nearly Obliviated into nonexistence a mere handful of floors away, or from having to say goodbye to Jacob simply because the magic-less fellow, for all his other talents, didn't have the ability to Transfigure even a teabag. It certainly hadn't protected his creatures from the prying eyes of the M.A.C.U.S.A., or the false Grave's power-hungry fingers.

The law didn't even properly protect the No-Majs _(muggles, really, but it's the same meaning, right?)_ from the world hopelessly entangled with their own. Jacob had barely even been allowed to say goodbye, and that was only really done as a favour to half-heartedly repay Newt for being able to pull a last-second Hail Merlin out of his suitcase with Frank and the Swooping Evil venom.

Destruction of multiple buildings, left in a disarray of brick rubble, broken window glass, and splintered wood to be puzzled and fretted over by the No-Maj community because no one magical wanted to consider the idea of an Obscurial existing in North America _(how many Obliviates did they have to do in order to keep people from panicking over unexplained building collapses, streets torn up like parchment with ink stained all over it, the screams and sobs as a gigantic black shadow swooped over the horizon and tore the bravery from the hearts of those who didn't know magic was real? How many rearranged newspapers, how many people with gaps in their minds, trying to understand a puzzle where the missing piece is hidden on purpose?)_.

Endless tirades against exposure, followed by M.A.C.U.S.A.'s erection of a shining, moon-coloured magical barrier in front of the subway entrance to a huge city square that was seen by dozens, if not hundreds, of concerned No-Majs before dear Frank had brought the venom-laced rain down in a deluge of memory wiping _(and it will fill the streets, fill the drains and plumbing, today the rain drowns the city in forgetting until there is a semblance of peace in New York again)_.

Segregation and disconnect from their non-magical neighbors to the point of complete indifference, even disbelief, of their humanity and worth _(granted, it wasn't all sunshine and roses back home either, but at least there you could properly talk to Muggles, even become friends, marry if you wanted, here it seems being a No-Maj means Jacob is an idiot child that needs to be kept silent and out of grownup wizard matters even if it means hurting a new friend, where my case can be seized and searched with no warrant, where Tina's years of service and loyalty are swept underfoot like dirt on the carpet, where I can look at the skyscrapers and acres of buildings of clumping brick and glass and marvel in sadness for the lack of Nature everywhere)_.

 _No_ , he thought sadly _, this is one law that doesn't help very much at all right now. Perhaps with some revision for current circumstances, but now?_

As it stood, he found himself wishing.

Wishing for a kinder, more equal world.

Wishing for a world where magic didn't determine value, where worth wasn't limited only to being a human who could make a wand spark.

Wishing for a world where perhaps he _could_ , if he so wished, be able to share the wonders of his creatures with others, without having to feel paranoid that they'd be hunted, or experimented on, or killed simply because they weren't useful, or easily controlled, or had horns or eggshells or certain guts that would sell for a hundred Sickles an ounce at an Apothecary.

 _If wishes were winged horses, we would all ride..._

 _But then,_ he thought _, that includes thestrals, and most people don't like those, either._

A laugh bubbled up for a moment, brief and pained, and he swallowed it before it could burst out and bring forth an urge to cry. Crying wouldn't do anything here.

After all, it hadn't worked very well the last time he'd cried that his creatures weren't dangerous.

* * *

When someone wanted to disappear, most people tended to consider such important things as spare changes of clothes, comfortable but sturdy shoes, toiletries to keep clean, perhaps some favoured memorabilia from friends or family like a teddy or good book, and a good rucksack or suitcase to carry it all in. However, if one was in a hurry, such items would likely be considered luxuries, and leaving with both the clothes on your back and your heart still beating was usually preferable to a suitcase full of things but no life to speak of.

And if one was in a _big_ hurry, well, that tended to make a difference, too. Credence Barebone was in such an awful hurry when he'd hurtled himself, wraithlike in body and spirit in shreds, towards the subway, and that desperation to move, to _escape_ , had made itself known again when fighting had broken out between Newt and Grindelwald. Briefly, as he'd struggled, supine and bruised on the subway tracks, to repel the other wizard's vicious lashings of conjured lightning and hexes, he'd watched Credence's ghostly, swirling mass overhead, surging and receding in on himself like a trapped tide, and was reminded of the agitated pacings of a trapped and wounded animal, cornered with nowhere to go, but unwilling to simply give up when the rest of the universe already had seemed to have deemed him a lost cause.

For a small, suspended moment of time, between Tina's doe-eyed pleading and earnest promises of protection and kindness, Grindelwald's alternating honeyed lies and desperate attempts to rekindle lost favour, and his own careful verbal balms of acceptance and offered help, Newt had thought, for a tiny fraction of a second, that it would be enough. For a small window of eternity, he'd seen what those few in his field would deem an utter miracle, and he'd felt hope, frail and trembling in his chest, flutter its wings against his ribcage, slowly becoming stronger as the tornado slowed before them all. He'd watched the churning, chaotic mass of beaten life whirling around the subway's golden-brick ceiling become more placid, winding down to stillness, as if slowly calming down, becoming more willing to listen in the hopes of someone, _anyone_ , offering what by now must seem far too good to be true.

Unfortunately for Credence, it hadn't been enough to save him from the devastating blasts of magic from over a dozen trained Aurors' wands.

The screams of agony sounded, at least to Newt's ears, to have been so unrelentingly _human_ that between ignoring the bruising pain and bone-deep exhausting from being Grindelwald's unfortunate dueling opponent, Tina's own horrified cries, and trying to figure out how to suppress the urge to throw up a _Protego_ that would ultimately do no good, Newt could only marvel in horror at the fact that none of the newly-arrived witches and wizards seemed to notice the terrific pain they were causing. There was no sorrow, no remorse, no hint of unease at any kind at the fact that their target had, only moments ago, been a living, breathing, _feeling_ human being that had already been in far more pain than anyone should ever be.

When their wands were lowered, Newt forced himself to ignore the urge to be sick, and instead had focused his attention on more current things to do, such as revealing Grindelwald and preventing his escape with help from the Swooping Evil in his pocket. In the ensuing chaos as the most infamous dark wizard in Europe attempted to fight his way out of the subway, Newt noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that the remnant floating shreds of the killed Obscurial were not entirely dissipated.

As Gindelwald was forcibly strong-armed out by a pair of grim-faced Aurors, a tiny patch of glowing, tattered ribbons weakly crawled, almost slithering away, over the topmost rubble of the broken open subway ceiling, and then out of sight.

* * *

New York was not a good place for easily finding magical creatures. Newt rued this fact for what felt the hundredth time since first stepping off the boat, as finding a single tiny wisp of a severely hurt (and most likely terrified and traumatised) Obscurial was the most challenging rescue mission he'd undertaken since he'd found and brought home Dougal.

 _Well,_ he thought wryly, trying to keep looking on the bright side of the situation _,_ _it's not quite so bad as all that._ _At least Credence isn't able to turn fully invisible._

Fortunately, Newt had years of practice, and a case full of the most infuriating, intelligent, and loyal creatures he'd ever known. Even with Jacob, Tina, and Queenie going back to their own lives now that the charges were cleared and the mass Oblivation and cleanup of New York had been accomplished, there was a sizable amount of help and moral support to be found, if one cared to look beyond just the humans, be they magical or not.

Tina's warm gaze and goodbye had felt like a well-loved jumper in cold weather, and he took a moment to memorise it as he watched her tall, pinstripe-clad figure vanish into the gaggle of people crowding around, loading cargo, and hurrying to and from the docks, the act fluid enough to earn even a Diricawl's approval.

 _She's not going to like that you didn't include her,_ a snide little voice muttered inside his head. Newt idly noted that said voice sounded suspiciously like Egbert Norton, a rather burly Slytherin who had spelled the magizoologist's inkwell to "accidentally" leak all over his notes on several occasions during Sixth Year's shared class lectures during Potions. It had made for some very difficult note-taking before Lida had taught him how to siphon the ink off with a homemade cleaning charm.

 _Tina just got her job reinstated. I don't need to muck that up by running back **into** New York with my case while searching for a lost boy who was recently hunted like a rabid monster by the M.A.C.U.S.A.!_

 _Jacob's back to normal and doesn't need to get dragged back into the Magical world again, but s_ _he's going to feel left out that you didn't include her or Queenie after all you just went through together._

 _Considering it took her helping to save New York's entire magical population from exposure to get her boss to consider taking her back as an Auror after she was fired trying to protect Credence in the first place, I don't think it's a good idea to get her involved right now. I don't even know if I can find him. There was barely anything left as it was, I'm hoping to make certain that he's alive first!_

A sharp jab, muffled by his coat fabric, directed his attention to Pickett, who scowled at him, gesturing towards the gleaming city and babbling sharply in the knobbly language of Bowtruckles everywhere, as if to say _Well, you won't know unless you go back, then, won't you?_

From the inside of the suitcase, a somewhat muffled series of assorted yips, grunts, chirps, and screeches chorused in apparent agreement, culminated by a sharp series of raps against the hidden trapdoor entrance from what could only be Dougal.

The corners of his mouth twitched upwards, threatening to form a grin at the sight. "Right you are, then."

* * *

 _First things first, was there anywhere he might return to?_

Sitting on the ladder rungs of his caravan-framed study, Newt twirled the familiar cocoon of jade-and-sapphire between his fingers, the prickly spines of the Swooping Evil tugging at the skin of his thumbs in a familiar comforting rasp as he pondered how to move forward, stringing together ideas from past experiences with the lost, wounded, or otherwise in need that had required a magizoologist's care. Overhead, a gaggle of Billywigs twirled and buzzed in a misshapen cloud of glittering electric-blue, their enormous eyes gleaming with mischief as a few landed in Newt's windswept hair. Used to their antics, the wizard merely tilted his head a bit before he turned his thoughts back to the matter at hand.

 _Left the subway as quickly as he could, he needed to get out before he got hurt any further._ Frank had been like that, in the beginning, desperate to try flying away even as Newt worked open the cuffs and locks keeping his wings pinned and body shoved roughly against the Nile's muddy riverbanks _(not even the threat of alligators deterred him, even if they tried to attack while he was grounded Frank still had his claws and beak and Newt would defend him)-_

Dougal rumbled against his knees, before gracefully climbing up the rungs to perch at the top and pick the Billywigs out of Newt's hair, each tiny form de-tangled with ease and then gently blown back into the air with a slight huff of breath and a wave of clever fingers. _Alleys or dark places, then? They'd provide some cover from Aurors or Muggle police._ But then he remembered Credence's hunkered position against the walls of the subway, pupils blown wide with distrust and fear and _pain_ as he tried both to shove himself into the smallest ball possible, and flatten himself against the wall like he was trying to melt through the bricks, before Grindelwald had showed up and started interfering with hexes and honeyed lies. Even in the ensuing fight and his subsequent panicked flight all through the subway, Credence had avoided the darkness of the connecting exit tunnels unless he was in his full Obscurial form, as the shadows then gave him a camouflaging advantage.

 _Credence didn't like dark places._ Unbidden, Newt's mind conjured up what kind of environment he'd likely have lived in beforehand to not want to go into the dark alone when he was the most powerful force in the area, and shuddered. _Right, bad memories, then. Maybe Grindelwald used to talk to him as Graves in dark spots? If so, I'd want to stay out of the dark too, there's too many alleys and shadows in New York._

 _Where, then? It's got to be nonmagical, everywhe else for a hundred miles has the M.A.C.U.S.A. involved in cleanup and damage control, and if Gnarlack catches wind of how much an Obscurial is worth when he's in this state, he won't stand a chance._

After a moment, the answer became obvious.

 _The Barebones' chapel house._ When in doubt, most creatures tended to move back towards remembered sources of safety, be it a den hidden beneath a mass of tree roots, a nest arranged high on the cliffs, or even the thick forests of lakebed weeds deep below the water's surface. The boggarts had their dark spaces, the imps their marshes and riverbanks and the Graphorns their mountains and plains, but where, by Merlin, would a terrified, confused shapeshifting boy hide?

Even in miles of concrete and brick buildings, there were just some places that no one would think to look at. Hated or not, if there was one place in all of New York where any magical creature could hide without fear of Aurors stopping by, it would be the one place where magic was well-known to be so fervently hated that the idea of any scrap of it existing there was even more insane than Grindelwald's desire to harness the powers of an Obscurus.

 _Time to return to where it all began, then._

Pickett trilled questioningly against his right lapel, spindly green fingers reaching out to fold over the fabric in preparation to hold on tight, and he grinned down at his tiny friend in affirmation, feeling re-energised with the prospect of the new goal.

 _I won't fail you this time, Credence. I'm sorry I couldn't stop them from hurting you, but help is on it's way, I promise._

For a brief moment, he thought of the little Sudanese girl, all of eight years old and already far too well-acquainted with suffering, and clenched his hands into fists. "I promise _,"_ he swore again, this time letting the words hang in the air of his suitcase, "I will find you, and I will help you."

There was no sudden change in the air, no hush falling over the tiny, cramped room, but he felt better, nonetheless.

Slipping out of the case, he closed it, taking renewed care to lock the clasps shut and retie the reinforced twine before getting up, the worn handle a solid, comforting weight against his palm.

His wand hummed with energy in his remaining hand as he righted himself. "Right then," he spoke aloud into the air; newly cleansed of memories from the venom-spiked rain, New York held a new, strange sense of anticipation, as if holding its breath. "Let's find ourselves a Lost Boy."

A sense of purpose humming under his skin, sparking his magic forth, he smiled. A split second later, the sharp _Crack_ of Apparition resounded like a gunshot going off in the air, a few stray dogs the only witnesses.

* * *

He found his quarry among ruins, a living ghost cloistered away amidst the wreckage of his old life. In the weak, haggard light of the evening sky, harshly illuminated by neon-orange lamps at the ends of the streets, the shredded remnants of the chapel house looked like the abandoned leftovers of a crime scene, or a page taken from a ghost story with no name but sadness.

Despite the immense damage to the structure's front and midsection, enough of the wreck was intact to allow a few _Reparo_ utterances to start mending the worst of it, with a _Notice Me Not_ thrown up for safety's sake (after all Tina had been through, it seemed horribly inconsiderate to make his new friend possibly have her job at risk so soon again by No-Majs possibly noticing magical activity). Cracked open like an egg, the guts of the main hall were visible in a massive pile of snapped wooden support beams, broken pieces of rickety chairs, chunks of the long dining table, blackened soot from the tiny fireplace, ink and twisted metal from the mangled pamphlet printing press, and trailing puddles of water from the ancient plumbing. The walls (what little was left of most of them) were unevenly splattered with a dark substance that Newt refused to look too closely at, though the metallic smell made it disturbingly easy to comprehend. Tucking his scarf more securely around his throat against the oncoming winter chill permeating the area, he began walking towards the back of the building, sidestepping broken glass and wood as he went. His boots crunched on the remnants of glass and tile on the half-buried floor, the sound muted from a Silencing Charm.

A pallid slice of greyish-white was visible, just barely, crumpled beneath the huge mess of wood and glass in the center of the main hall. He steps closer, a sense of unease flickering beneath his breastbone, and feels...something, in the sense that there's _nothing_ , upon viewing the source of the discolouration.

 _Merlin's beard._

* * *

Alive, Mary Lou Barebone was as close to evil given human form as the rabble of her adopted children could find. Beatings were as common as prayers and pamphlet handouts, food and kindness could be withheld unless child labour was given, and a smile could just as easily mean a welt-making crack across the palms with spoons or a belt as a declaration that someone with an oddly-shaped birthmark or scar was clean of "witch's marks". Newt had not known Credence as Tina had, but what little she'd managed to tell him at the _Blind Pig_ , combined with the brief but unpleasant viewing of her memories when they were almost forcefully Obliviated, had managed to form a highly disturbing picture of life under the Barebones' roof.

Now, though, as he looks at her, she's nothing more than a crumpled doll left abandoned on the floor, crushed underfoot from a power that she'd denied and hated until the rage built up, a slow-cooker of seething pain and suppressed magic, like the pressure of ascending magma fueling a volcanic eruption. Her eyes are glassy, just barely visible beneath bulbous, death-swollen eyelids overlaid with a spiderweb of darkening purple veins. Mousy brown hair, pin-straight at the roots, lies spread out in a morbid perversion of a halo around her head, darkened to the shade of coal in places from soot from the fireplace and sticky with congealed blood. Her neck is at an angle that reminds Newt of tree branches snapped off in harsh winds, throat and face covered in a crazed mass of silvery-white marks that look like scars.

For a moment, looking at her ruined face, he's forcefully reminded of the mangled corpse of Senator Henry Shaw Jr., the silvery mass of his soul floating limply in the air back at the meeting of the Confederacy of Wizards, and he has to look away.

Like in the subway, Newt contemplated his choice of approach, and decided on the safest route: very slowly coming closer, palms open, wand tucked away, and crouched low to appear as nonthreatening as possible. Speaking would have to be absent, or soft and clear.

 _Hopefully he won't panic if he can sense me, I don't want him hurting himself..._

For a brief moment, visions of scarred hands and terrified screams from impacting spells flickered across his mind's eye, overlapping with older memories of dull eyes, broken feathers, and scarred hides, and he winced.

Newt had no idea what Credence's injuries would be like, if he even had any. The extensive power displayed earlier could easily translate to mean enough magic had been forcefully stored up over time to accelerate healing now that it finally had been given an outlet, but it could just as easily be dangerous for him to even briefly contain, akin to how Ashwinder eggs needed to be frozen immediately after being laid, or else risk burning their surrounding environment to the ground. Witches and wizards were usually a bit more durable than their non-magical counterparts, but their magical cores were never meant to be suppressed to the breaking point.

 _Well, no matter,_ he decided _, if he's indeed hurt then I'll make sure he gets patched up. If there's enough salves and potions at home for an army, there's bound to be something to help him._

The stairs creaked dangerously as he stepped onto the bottom board, prompting Newt to instinctively freeze up before casting another Silencing charm. _With any luck, that didn't scare him off..._

The tiny space that greeted him was almost as depressing to witness as the rest of the building. Being sheltered from the brunt of the explosion of power from Credence earlier, the bedroom had been mostly preserved, and part of Newt couldn't help but wish that it hadn't.

 _It's a prison._ The thought, instinctive and savage, roared to the forefront of his mind, but he found he couldn't take it back.

 _No,_ he thought grimly to himself _, I **won't** take it back._

Ducking his head to step through the low door-frame without hitting his head on the rough wood, he peered closer inside, legs bent to survey the room without needing to crane his neck upwards. The room was more of a broom closet or small pantry than a proper bedroom. The narrow walls looked like they had been whitewashed at some point, but the paint was peeling off unevenly in curling strips, and most of the wall space was taken up by religious memorabilia depicting the _Second Salemers_ ' scripture. A narrow twin bed had been shoved up against the leftmost wall, running the entire length and taking up about half of the space in the room, and was equipped with a thin mattress and a threadbare blanket that looked at some point to have perhaps, long ago, been yellow or blue. The low-hanging ceiling was bare and white, with a crisscross of dark wooden support beams running through it. There was a distinct lack of anything that made it seem well lived-in, as if the occupant only really stayed in here to sleep.

There was something else, though. Newt scanned the room once more, trying to figure out if there were any hiding places. With a sinking heart he noted that there wasn't a lot of potential spots to begin with, as just like the rest of the building, the tiny space was built to be functional, not comfortable. The three corners of the room were filled on two parts with the ends of the bed, and the remaining corner appeared purposely empty. Newt wondered, with another wave of discomfort, if it was meant as a place of punishment, like it often was for non-magical schools. The lack of wardrobes or closets prickled at the back of his neck, fine hairs standing on end as if brushed by the icy fog of an approaching Dementor. _Did she think they would hide something in them if they were available? Books, a bit of wood that could be mistaken as a wand, cloth that might be mistaken for a robe?_

 _Or,_ and the thought is slimy, discomfiting like accidentally stepping in something slimy and cold in the dark, _maybe_ _she thought that they could hide themselves in there from her?_

Shoving away the unpleasant thought that hissed, basilisk-like, a raspy _yes_ at the unasked questions, he decided to take a chance. If there was anywhere left in the room to hide, it would be under the bed.

The suitcase was placed in the empty corner, a _Protego_ thrown over it, as well as several additional charms carefully layered on top of each other, just in case things went too badly. Not for the first time, Newt felt a spark of gratefulness that, despite his lack of skill in offensive magic, he'd always excelled in protective spellwork and charms of all kinds.

 _Alright, time to give it a go._

Steeling himself, he carefully knelt down on the hard floor, crawling forward on his stomach and dragging himself along with his elbows, and peered into the dark space.

"Credence? Credence, if you're there...can you answer me?"

* * *

It was smaller on the inside than he'd expected.

The bed had rather short legs, but there was just enough space to squeeze into between the bed support slats, the dog-eared shoe boxes, and the bare wooden floor for a skinny person...or a small scrap of an Obscurial.

It was dark under the bed, but as he wasn't entirely certain a sudden _Lumos_ would be accepted in what was arguably a very cramped space to begin with, he decided it would be better to try a less startling alternative. Reaching into his pockets very slowly, he quietly dug around for a new light source. "It's okay, Credence," he whispered, "I'm just going to find a bit of light so I don't bang my head on something down here, alright?"

 _Let's see, Mandrake root trimmings, that vial of Bobotuber pus, a handful of Dougal's hair from brushing him last week, some more Swooping Evil venom, parchment scraps, some Oak bark shavings..._

Suddenly his fingers brushed against a familiar gummy texture, and a quick roll of his fingertips against the smooth, rubbery surface revealed a spherical shape. _Mooncalf pellets. Perfect._

Pulling his hand free, he gently tossed the tiny pellets onto the floor, watching as they slowly floated up, glowing a faint, warm gold from within, like miniature Great Hall candles. The sight that greeted him made something in his chest constrict painfully.

 _Oh, Credence, look what they've done to you._

Far from being the great, hulking mass of roiling chaotic power and emotional distress that had torn entire architectural chunks out of New York, the small, flickering bit of red and black huddled against one of the room's corners (looking further dwarfed from the fact that said corner was already mostly occupied by a stocky bedpost) appeared almost comically tiny and pathetic, a wavering candle compared to a raging wildfire. He could have held it in the palm of his hand, if he'd been so inclined, though the thought of carelessly reaching out and snatching at the already weakened Obscurial, quite possibly the smallest one left of his kind, made something in his chest squeeze painfully. Newt stared at the wavering light sadly, forcing himself not to shiver in sympathetic pain as he recalled how many of his older creatures had been much the same when he'd rescued them, all frightened and pained and trying desperately to either hide from prying eyes, or, barring that, putting on a front of bravado in an attempt to make themselves less of a target.

Carefully, so as not to spook the undoubtedly frightened boy in front of him, he inched a bit closer, managing by sheer willpower not to reach out, in an instinctive gesture borne from countless times doing so for his creatures when they were sick or in pain, to gather the hurt Obscurial close. Even reduced to a fraction of his original power and size, at such close proximity Newt could still easily get hurt, and if he were to be knocked unconscious no one would be available to help Credence.

 _Please work, please work, oh dear Merlin, please work. At this size, if he flees, there'll be no finding him again, and I don't want him to be alone._

"Credence," he whispered again, "Credence, lad, do you remember me? It's Newt Scamander. I'm one of Miss Goldstein's friends. Do you remember her? Rather tall, brown hair, very determined look about her? She told me that she tried to keep your-"

A moment of hesitation, the word _mother_ lodging itself in his throat like a charm for slugs gone wrong, before he tried again. "Er, Ms. Barebone, she tried to keep her from hurting you."

The small quivering light flickered at that, glowing slightly brighter, dark red warming to cherry for a moment. Heartened by this, he continued. "Ms. Barebone won't ever hurt you again, Credence, she's gone. You won't ever have to be scared of her, not ever again."

He looked at the tiny, huddled form that, even now, looked as if a good breeze might blow it all away, and decided to risk it. "Credence, I'm not sure how much you remember, given what happened back in the subway station, but Miss Goldstein and I meant it when we said we'd help you. We didn't want you to get hurt back there, and we're both so, so sorry that we couldn't stop those people from harming you."

The light flickered again, this time glowing like fire, and he drew a little bit closer again. Pleading silently that he wouldn't ruin things, he gingerly held out his hands, palms up and open before him. The positioning made his elbows chafe painfully against the rough, splintery floorboards, but he ignored it.

"No matter what you grew up hearing, you're _not_ a monster, you're someone who deserves to get the help you need. What you have isn't something that was ever meant to be locked away. Witches and wizards think of magic as a gift, it's something special. It's as much a part of you as your eyes, or your nose, or whether you like mushrooms or or prefer striped robes over plaid ones. It can help you do amazing things, like cure illnesses, or fix houses, or light up the darkness. But the one thing it _can't_ do, is make you a freak, Credence."

Ever so slightly, the ball of smoke and ash uncurled on itself, drifting a tiny bit forward.

Newt had never been very good with words, so he hoped Tina didn't mind too terribly much if he borrowed a few of hers. If they had worked, however briefly, in the subway, there was a slim chance they may work again here. "I know you're alone, and that you're afraid. I know that right now, everything is overwhelming, and terrifying, and that you just want to be safe. I want you to be able to know what being safe feels like, Credence. I can't promise you a miracle, I can't promise you that everything will be magically fixed, not even magic can fix everything," and here he lets out a watery chuckle, thinking back to years of frustration learning spellwork, years of struggling to fit in, to be accepted instead of merely tolerated, "but I promise that I will help you, that I will do everything I can to protect you, and I will make sure that you _never_ have to worry about being cared about ever again."

* * *

For a long, painful moment, there was no reply, no sign of reaction, and Newt felt a sickening worry that the young Obscurial would vanish away entirely rather than risk reaching out.

When the faint reddish-black light of the scrap suddenly blinked out of view, he felt ice flood his veins, and the instinctive shock of it left him croaking out a panicked "Credence?" before he slammed his head into the wooden slats overhead. "Ouch! Credence, wait! Please don't go!" he rasped out, the pain of failing yet _again_ striking out as harsh and stinging against his insides, how could he have lost another one? _Credence, I'm sorry so sorry come back please come back-_

A faint draft blew across the floor, unfurling like a flower opening up under the gentle touch of the morning sun, gently ghosting forward to settle into his outstretched hands as a tiny bloom of smoke. Hardly daring to believe it, he looked down, _oh Merlin please let it be true-_

Nestled into the center of his palms, shaking like a leaf on the wind, sat a tiny, flickering heart of ruby swaddled in the midst of ribbons of smoky quartz and ashen greys and blacks. The edges swirled against his skin like the beat of a Billywig's wings, the touch cold as frost-kissed glass. Had he still been at school, his former Divination Professor would be incapable of getting him to participate in palmistry, as the lines were entirely obscured by living smoke.

Carefully, so as not to jostle the precious cargo in his grip, Newt slowly drew his hands together to cup them into a makeshift bowl. "Don't worry, Credence," he whispered, gazing at the tiny patch of life sitting over his heart lines, wrapped around his thumbs and clinging to the seams of his knuckles. "I'm not going anywhere."


End file.
